Red

Everyone who knows me personally recognises that fashion isn’t my strongest suit. It’s not that I dress ugly – I simply don’t dress “well” and therefore don’t belong in many fancy spaces.

Since my childhood, I’ve never cared to put significant effort in how I look. I gravitate towards low to no effort clothing, hair, shoes – you name it.

I had an interaction recently that bothered me, and made me reflect on my attitude to fashion a little bit. I was wearing the red sweater that I always wear – passed down to me by my grandparents, and queing for a dinner at a fancy restaurant near where I live. By no means was I in violation of the dress code.

As the waiter invited the guests in front of me entered, I noticed how he greeted them with a warm smile. When it came to my turn, I knew I was in for a struggle as my eye spied his lips purse, his smile disappear and his skin as if my mere presence in front of him was offensive. He asked to see my reservation, at which point I protested – pointing out that it was discriminatory that he checked mine and not that of the guests that he let in earlier.

Despite the brazenness of the situation, the man insisted on the lie, perhaps to keep whatever remained of his dignity. It’s always easier to deny that you are in the wrong than own up to it, having done both throughout my life.

I didn’t let this incident ruin my night. I decided to collect myself and enjoy my meal.

Pink

On Nowruz, I woke up to a gift under my soft pillows: a beautiful pink sweater. It wasn’t discoloured like my red one, and it had a nice feel to it. As I am a fidgety and tactile person I cannot tell you the number of times I’ve touched it to feel it’s soft sensations on my skin.

I wore it that same night and went to the same restaurant. And as you might expect (and perhaps it’s very cliché), my experience was completely different. I was treated like a different person. A person of importance.

There was not a single shred of doubt to my intentions and to my authority. There was no doubt that I belonged.

I felt like I could leave without paying and I still wouldn’t come under question.

But despite being so perceptive to these changes, I noticed that my mind and body behaved the same. As the waiters approached me, my mind was prepared to be defensive. I doubted my existence there and always looked for threats. My pink sweater may allow me access to fancy spaces without judgement, but it also makes me an impostor whereas before I was but an intruder.

I love my pink sweater, but I feel like it is not mine. It is a gift, like my red sweater but from Amu Nowruz, not from my grandparents. Therefore even though it fits me better objectively, it feels heavy and uncomfortable. Despite the snug fit, I feel like I need to grow into it.

So I have a choice: do I stay in the comfort zone of my childhood and not take agency over how I present myself to the rest of society, or do I earn the beautiful pink sweater that I’ve been gifted?